Oh, think of nothing but the great, beautiful task you have devoted your life to.
Rosmer.
[Shakes his head.] It can never be accomplished, dear. Not by me. Not after what I have come to know.
Rebecca.
Why not by you?
Rosmer.
Because no cause ever triumphs that has its origin in sin.
Rebecca.
[Vehemently.] Oh, these are only ancestral doubts—ancestral fears—ancestral scruples. They say the dead come back to Rosmersholm in the shape of rushing white horses. I think this shows that it is true.
Rosmer.